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･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
──── SEPTEMBER 1977 ,
IT STARTS WITH a letter.
Or four.
Each of which arrive without reason or warning in the utmost of unexpected ways, concealing within it a plethora of tempting secrets and mysteries practically begging to be uncovered. They do not arrive by owl, but rather seem to procure like magic leafed between the pages of a favourite book, tucked away in the pocket of a leather jacket, hidden beneath folded robes in the trunk by the end of a bed, and placed neatly on the smooth surface of a pillow as if it had materialized from the stars straight out of a dream.
It is not at all how James Potter had assumed the start of his seventh year would go.
The curly haired boy had fallen asleep in the ruby red Gryffindor dormitories that he has called home for so long after the familiar comfort of the Start-of-Term Feast and a night of being reunited with old friends. In the morning when he wakes to golden light, his oblivious unsuspecting ways could not have prepared him for what was to come, unfolding in a whirlwind of emotions in the next handful of months. After all, James Potter is never caught off guard, and the brazen constellation of traits of daring nerve that run through his bloodstream like precious ichor and drives him couldn't possibly pale in comparison in the face of an enigma - until it does.
So, that morning the universe allows for him to wander about the halls of Hogwarts in his mischievous innocence, like the king that he is and the castle that it is being his kingdom and his alone. But when he returns to his dorm after a tedious first day back to classes, he stumbles upon the first sign that his life would never be the same again.
Because there, nestled perfectly on top of his pillow as if it had been there all this time when it certainly had not been there before, is a single dove-white envelope. It's sealed shut and on the front of it is pretty, swooping script sprawled out in a whimsical flourish that reads distinctly:
TO JAMES POTTER
His first instinctual thought is that perhaps it had been a letter he had missed the night before when the owls had arrived - that maybe it was from his mother and father, checking in on their son. Then, imprudently, he lets himself wonder if maybe, just maybe, it's from Evans. She has the same pretty font, doesn't she? The same slanting cross of her T's and the fluid airiness of her S's. But he knows that is only just a fool's dream, somewhere deep inside his heart, because what on earth would someone like Lily Evans want with James Potter?
